White Collar: Body Heat
by Ruahnna
Summary: The White Collar team has always been close, but a blizzard brings them even closer.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Body Heat**

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **General Friendship

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 718

**Story Summary:** The White Collar team has always been close, but a blizzard brings them even closer.

Body Heat

_They say heat escapes through your head_, Neal thought dimly, looking with longing at Diana's glossy dark locks. He shoved his hands under his armpits and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. He had considered asking her, but he was more afraid of _bleeding_ than he was of freezing to death, but the balance was shifting every moment.

"They'll find us,"" Diana said. "Your anklet still working, right?"

Neal glanced at it, not-quite-alarmed that he could still _move_ his foot, but he couldn't _feel_ it. He started to speak, then stopped.

"Spill it, Caffrey," she snapped, her voice muffled inside the collar of her coat.

"I don't think it's _finding_ us that's the problem. I think it's going to be—"

"Yeah. Getting to us. I know, Caffrey. I know." She turned around and looked at him in the backseat, noticed the faint bluing of his lips. "Caffrey—don't you _dare_ freeze to death on me_._"

"Wouldn't think of it," he chattered.

"Caff—Neal, do you think Jones is okay? He left a while ago."

Neal looked out the car window into the blizzard, into the sheet of blowing snow. He did what he did when he did not want to lie—he deflected.

"Jones is big, and he's tough. It would take a lot to put him out of commission."

"Come up here, won't you?" Diana said. Her voice sounded calm. Nobody else would have noticed the tremor in her voice. He made his own voice gentle in response.

"It would be better if you came back here," he said. "Bench seats instead of bucket seats..."

Diana nodded, clambering over the seat with difficulty. Neal noticed her shoes. Beautiful, but not offering any real coverage. If _his_ feet were frozen... She practically fell into his arms, but their laughter was mostly defensive, almost hysterical. Neal did his best to tuck her in beside him, placed her feet underneath his thigh.

"They're so cold, Caffrey," she muttered. "Are you sure you want to—"

"Are you kidding? Pass up a chance to play footsie with you?" She _looked_ at him, annoyed, or trying to be. "My legs are frozen anyway," Neal joked. It was not quite true, but not quite funny, either. The looked at each other, then Diana tucked her head against his, put her arms around his awkwardly and tried not to shake.

It was better. It wasn't good, but it was better. _Better_ was freezing to death in the arms of someone who _knew_ you, who _cared_ about you. Better was sharing your hope, and the slow dwindling of it as the blizzard encased the city. Time slowed to the slow rise and fall of their chests, the pulse of their blood through their veins.

It had not been long when something hit the car—hard, but not hard enough to be another car, or a snowplow. Neal had not shared his fear that they might be bisected by a city snowplow that was hunting for them. They startled, shaken with surprise, then heard pounding on the roof, the door. Someone was scraping at the car window—

"Jones!"

"Oh my god, Clinton—get _in_ here!" Awkwardly, they pushed the car door open—the back one—and the big agent fell in, fell across them. They hauled him in and pulled the door shut.

Within minutes, the had Clinton in the center of the back seat and had draped themselves across him, across each other.

"If _either_ of you _talks_ about this," he managed, teeth chattering.

"You should _be_ so lucky," Diana said, and smacked him on the back of his swathed head. His hat had been soaked through, so she had taken her scarf off and wrapped it around Clinton close-cropped head.

Remembering his envy of Diana's tresses, Neal slipped his arm around Clinton's neck and tried to cover his head. This necessitated sitting on Clinton's lap, but since Diana was _already_ sitting on his lap...

"Hey, watch it," Clinton said, looking up at Neal.

"Watch _yourself_, big guy," Neal teased. "Not _all_ of me is numb." Later, Diana would swear that Clinton's blush raised the temperature in the car 5 degrees. There was no denying that the three of them were doing better staying warm together than the two of them alone.

"If we get out of here, Caffrey," Clinton growled. Diana smacked him on the back of the head again, but lightly.

"When, Clinton. I think the word you're looking for is _when_."

"Right," said Clinton. "Right." He looked up a Neal, no teasing on his face. "You're anklet still working?"

Neal nodded. "Peter will find us," he said. "He'll find us."

They all knew that. The question wasn't _if_, but _when_.

And the second question was,_**would it be in time**_**?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Body Heat, Part 2**

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **General Friendship

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 718

**Story Summary:** The White Collar team has always been close, but a blizzard brings them even closer.

Part 2

"Okay," said Neal sometime after four in the morning. "If I'm ever stranded on a desert island with you two—"

"You _wish_," Diana muttered, but did not raise her head from where it was tucked beneath his chin. She wasn't exactly _warm_, but she wasn't frozen, wasn't freezing. The bathroom was becoming an issue, however, and she wasn't sure how to address it.

"Yeah, what _she_ said," Clinton muttered sleepily.

"If I'm _ever_ stranded on a desert island with you two," Neal repeated testily, "I _do not_ want to be in the middle."

"Caffrey?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Why to women who sleep with me always tell me that?" he asked. Diana poked him in the collar bone with a knuckle—it was all the violence she could do without moving from her position snuggled against her coworkers.

"I'm not sleeping _with_ you—God forbid," she mumbled. "I'm sleeping _on_ you."

"You say to-may-toh, I say to-mah-toh," Neal began.

"Shut up, Caffrey."

"I have a theory about that," Clinton muttered.

"About tomatoes?"

"_No—_not about _tomatoes_," he huffed. "About why all the women who sleep with you tell you to shut up."

"Oh yeah? Let's _hear_ it?" Neal demanded.

"Because you talk to damn much. In _fact_—"

"Clinton?"

"Yes, Diana?"

"Shut up."

"Is she always this cranky in the morning?" Neal asked.

Clinton shifted in surprise. "Why are you asking _me_?"

"You see anyone _else_ here?"

"Caffrey, so help me—" Diana snapped. Shifting around had caused her bladder to slosh, and the need to pee was becoming desperate.

"Guys, look," she said.

"Look at _what_?" Clinton said, complaining from his place on the bottom. In truth, it had been the best seat in the house—and the most necessary—when he had crawled back into the car, practically frozen and almost in shock. Their weight and body heat had brought him back to life, and it was only now, when things felt less tenuous that his temper reasserted itself.

"Rhetorical," Diana muttered. She tried to sit up and bumped her head on the little car light in the ceiling. "Ouch! Damn."

"_So_ not a morning person," Neal muttered. Diana considered not alerting him to her predicament. _Laugh __**that**__ up, Caffrey,_ she thought viciously, but modesty or indignity wouldn't allow it.

"Guys."

"_What? _ I can't _see_ you, and I've answered you every time you've spoken. _What_, Diana—_what_?"

Diana's cheeks flames with embarrassment. "I have to, um, pee," she said. She had started to say "go," but had opted to be more specific—what _was_ she, five?—andthe silence that followed her pronouncement was _not_ encouraging.

"I know what _I'd_ do," Clinton said, "but I don't have a clue what to tell _you_ to do."

"I've got a suggestion about what _you_ can _do_," she gritted, but Neal was moving, shifting. Diana thought for a moment that if anyone could _see_ them, a mass of limbs and layers and...smells, that they were the stuff of nightmares.

"Hang on," said Caffrey. With Diana half-crouching , Neal levered himself off of Jones' lap and onto the seat beside him. It gave them both a pretty good view of Diana's backside in the slim-cut suit pants, and they exchanged guilty looks, trying to see if the other one had noticed. They _had_.

Neal scrabbled in the floor of the car, searching for something by feel.

"That's my _ankle_," Diana said. "If you need me to move—"

"Ah _ha_," Neal said triumphantly, holding out his coffee cup from earlier in the day. He looked delighted with himself.

"What am I supposed to do with _that_?" Diana demanded. But she _knew_.

"Well, if we can find a _napkin_, I can draw you a _picture_—" Neal began. Diana snatched the cup away and glared at him, then at Clinton. Clinton had _no_ expression on his face, but he was biting the inside of his cheek so hard he could swear he tasted blood.

"If you find a _napkin_," Diana gritted, "I already have a _use_ for it." Eventually, Clinton found a couple of crumpled—but thankfully _unusued_ tissues in his coat pocket.

They were actually surprisingly swell about it. Neal took off his coat—a sacrifice, she knew—and held it up so she could have privacy in the front seat. The windows were covered with snow, so there was no danger of anyone happening by, although Diana did have a nightmare about the entire White Collar division bursting in to rescue them just as she got..._situated_. It was a testament to the tamped-down panic that she was trying to ignore that that scenario didn't actually bother her that much. She did her business and, after deliberation (but no _consultation_) opened the door a crack to pour the contents of the cup into snow. A crack was all she managed, however—the snow was practically packed against the sides of the car. She mentioned it, more to cover the awkwardness than anything else.

"I think that's why we're not actually frozen," Neal said, sitting on the seat next to Jones with his head back and eyes closed. He had not yet struggled back into his coat. "I think the snow against the car insulated heat that was _in_ the car."

"The heat's not been running in the car for a while," Clinton said, then his eyes widened with understanding. "You mean _our_ heat. Our body heat."

"Yep," said Neal. "Thank God _you've_ got a high metabolism," he said. Clinton's resting body temp was not unpleasant in the confines of the car.

"You won't think so when I decide to _eat_ you before they can dig us out."

"Try it," Neal said, still leaning back wit his eyes closed. "I'm pretty sure I won't taste like chicken."

Diana turned around and looked into the back seat. They looked comfortable, and she hated the thought of disrupting them. She tucked her hands beneath her armpits.

"Hey, get back here," Neal demanded, still resting. "It's your turn to be in the middle. I've done my time."

Gratefully, Diana stumbled over the armrest into the back seat. They caught her and wedged her between them, and this time it was Clinton who tucked her feet beneath his thigh, covered them with his jacket and laid his forearm against them.

"How can you be such a tough gal in such dumb shoes?" Clinton asked. She was on the verge of saying something caustic, but it died in her throat. Clinton was rubbing her feet with his hand, and she couldn't bring herself to snipe at him.

"You be amazed how many times I've asked myself that very question," she said. "It's not easy, that's for sure."

"You make it look easy, little bit," Clinton teased, but gently, not really trying to get a rise out of her.

"It's all an act, I assure you."

The tough gal stuff or the looking easy part?" Neal asked, just to be an ass.

"Ask me back at the office," she said. "I'll give you a demo." Neal laughed, sounding tired. Her back was against his shoulder. "Hey Caffrey," she said. "You want to put your coat back on?"

"No. I'm fine," Neal murmured. "Just...tired."

His words sounded slurred and she sat up straighter and struggled to turn around.

"Oh my god, Clinton—I thing he's going into shock or hypothermia. What happened? He shouldn't fall asleep." They scrambled around, Diana accidentally elbowing Clinton in the ear, but managed to rouse Neal and check his pupils.

"What?" he complained, as Diana slapped his face. "What are you _doing_? Stop—" He grabbed her wrists. "Stop hitting me, already. I gave you a cup to pee in—shouldn't that buy me a little amnesty?"

Diana considered slapping him for real, but immediately felt ashamed. "I...I thought you were..."

"Yeah, yeah—hypothermia, got it," Neal said. "I'm not turning into a popsicle—I'm turning into a zombie."

"Late night last night?" Clinton asked. He tried to keep a touch of envy—or salaciousness—out of his voice.

"Yeah. Painting," he said. "Couldn't sleep." He sounded bone tired. "Don't guess there's any coffee?" he asked.

"Fresh out," said Diana, and after a moment of stunned silence, they all giggled like mad things. Diana reached out awkwardly and touched Neal's arm. "Hey, look. Go ahead and nap. It's not like we're going anywhere any time soon."

"Wake me when we get to Disneyland," he murmured, but when Diana's eyes flew wide, he opened one eye and smirked at here.

"Gotcha," he said smugly.

"You might want to sleep with one eye open," Diana said, but it was toothless.

"I'll _do_ that," Neal said, and promptly went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Body Heat**

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **General Friendship

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 718

**Story Summary:** The White Collar team has always been close, but a blizzard brings them even closer.

Body Heat, Part 3

Neal napped, and while it looked appealing, Diana was just plain worn out from inactivity. The thought of losing herself to slumber was not comforting. She was gratified, however, when Neal shifted closer to Clinton on the seat. She ended up halfway on Neal's lap, with his head tucked into the hollow between her and Clinton. Instead of putting the coat back on, he had draped it over both of them, the edge over Clinton, and the extra layer of warmth was more than welcome. When she was sure he was asleep, she reached around the touched the back of his head, which looked cold and exposed close to the back window.

"He okay?" Clinton asked, more because of her worried expression than anything.

"Caffrey? He's fine," Diana said brusquely, but Clinton just smiled at her.

"Yeah, I know. He's a pain in the ass, but he's okay."

"He...sure knows how to smooth over the rough edges," Diana said, aware that her edges were probably the roughest. Clinton shifted beneath her, then again.

"Am I—?" she began.

"You're fine," he said, grimacing, and continuing to shift.

"Clinton, I'm going to ask you nice, but _what the hell_ are you _doing_?"

Clinton's cheeks flamed with heat. "I'm trying to get to my phone, okay?" he muttered. "Just...sit tight, okay? I'm not...sorry, _sorry_, I'm not trying to—there!" He pulled the phone free and held it aloft.

"You don't really expect to get a signal, do you?"

"Well, since I can't do the morning crossword, I though I'd try _this_," Clinton said. He didn't sound snappish, just resigned, and Diana subsided.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry I'm so...bossy." That last was delivered without her usual bravado.

"Who, _you_?" Clinton said, but he smiled at her as he tucked the phone away. "It's fine. _One_ of us needs to be a pessimist."

"What? I'm not a _pessimist_," Diana protested. "How can you say I'm a pessimist?"

"Because you _are_," Jones said mildly. He looked at her, surprised to see hurt beneath the annoyance on her face.

She opened her mouth and closed it. Her arms, which had been crossed across her chest, hands tucked under, hugged her spare frame tighter. "I'm not a...a _pessimist_. I'm..._realistic_, that's all."

"Okay," said Clinton. He couldn't—_quite—_keep his eyebrows from climbing and Diana made a huffy sound and clenched herself into a little knot of indignation. After a few awkward minutes, with her radiating more hostility than heat, Clinton sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry I said you were a pessimist."

"It's fine," Diana said sullenly.

"Obviously it's not."

"Fine, fine. I'm Mary Freaking Sunshine, okay?"

Clinton sighed again and shifted, slipping his left arm around Neal's shoulders and drawing him closer. It not only made things warmer, but it made Diana's perch on the two of them more secure. She didn't say anything when Clinton reached to tuck the coat more firmly around her legs, his big hand resting on her hip. The sight of it, big and warm and comforting, made her feel grateful and guilty.

"I think they're going to find us," she said firmly.

"That'd be great," said Clinton, smooth and impervious as a rock. _No wonder he'd made such a good soldier_, Diana thought. She could picture him in battle, brave and calm. It _was_ good to have him here, and not just for the warmth of his body. She thought of Christi, wondered if she were really worried yet, or only apprehensive. It hadn't been 24 hours yet, and the city—and the ER where Christi worked—was probably in emergency mode all over. She wanted to turn around to see if Neal's anklet was still on, but moving would have displaced them _all_ and she _hated_ being the whiny, fidgety one. She wished Neal were awake, but rejected the idea of poking him. He had found a measure of solace in this misery and she didn't want to take it from him.

"What do you think Peter is doing?" Diana asked. In the dim light, Clinton's gaze was gentle.

"Everything he can," he said.

But they both wondered if that would be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Body Heat**

**Rating**: Gen

**Genre/Relationship: **General Friendship

**Spoilers:** None

**Word Count:** 1237

**Story Summary:** The White Collar team has always been close, but a blizzard brings them even closer.

Body Heat, Part 4

Neal napped, and while it looked appealing, Diana was just plain worn out from inactivity. The thought of losing herself to slumber was not comforting. She was gratified, however, when Neal shifted closer to Clinton on the seat. She ended up halfway on Neal's lap, with his head tucked into the hollow between her and Clinton. Instead of putting the coat back on, he had draped it over both of them, the edge over Clinton, and the extra layer of warmth was more than welcome. When she was sure he was asleep, she reached around the touched the back of his head, which looked cold and exposed close to the back window.

"He okay?" Clinton asked, more because of her worried expression than anything.

"Caffrey? He's fine," Diana said brusquely, but Clinton just smiled at her.

"Yeah, I know. He's a pain in the ass, but he's okay."

"He...sure knows how to smooth over the rough edges," Diana said, aware that her edges were probably the roughest. Clinton shifted beneath her, then again.

"Am I—?" she began.

"You're fine," he said, grimacing, and continuing to shift.

"Clinton, I'm going to ask you nice, but _what the hell_ are you _doing_?"

Clinton's cheeks flamed with heat. "I'm trying to get to my phone, okay?" he muttered. "Just...sit tight, okay? I'm not...sorry, _sorry_, I'm not trying to—there!" He pulled the phone free and held it aloft.

"You don't really expect to get a signal, do you?"

"Well, since I can't do the morning crossword, I though I'd try _this_," Clinton said. He didn't sound snappish, just resigned, and Diana subsided.

"Sorry," she said. "Sorry I'm so...bossy." That last was delivered without her usual bravado.

"Who, _you_?" Clinton said, but he smiled at her as he tucked the phone away. "It's fine. _One_ of us needs to be a pessimist."

"What? I'm not a _pessimist_," Diana protested. "How can you say I'm a pessimist?"

"Because you _are_," Jones said mildly. He looked at her, surprised to see hurt beneath the annoyance on her face.

She opened her mouth and closed it. Her arms, which had been crossed across her chest, hands tucked under, hugged her spare frame tighter. "I'm not a...a _pessimist_. I'm..._realistic_, that's all."

"Okay," said Clinton. He couldn't—_quite—_keep his eyebrows from climbing and Diana made a huffy sound and clenched herself into a little knot of indignation. After a few awkward minutes, with her radiating more hostility than heat, Clinton sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry I said you were a pessimist."

"It's fine," Diana said sullenly.

"Obviously it's not."

"Fine, fine. I'm Mary Freaking Sunshine, okay?"

Clinton sighed again and shifted, slipping his left arm around Neal's shoulders and drawing him closer. It not only made things warmer, but it made Diana's perch on the two of them more secure. She didn't say anything when Clinton reached to tuck the coat more firmly around her legs, his big hand resting on her hip. The sight of it, big and warm and comforting, made her feel grateful and guilty.

"I think they're going to find us," she said firmly.

"That'd be great," said Clinton, smooth and impervious as a rock. _No wonder he'd made such a good soldier_, Diana thought. She could picture him in battle, brave and calm. It _was_ good to have him here, and not just for the warmth of his body. She thought of Christi, wondered if she were really worried yet, or only apprehensive. It hadn't been 24 hours yet, and the city—and the ER where Christi worked—was probably in emergency mode all over. She wanted to turn around to see if Neal's anklet was still on, but moving would have displaced them _all_ and she _hated_ being the whiny, fidgety one. She wished Neal were awake, but rejected the idea of poking him. He had found a measure of solace in this misery and she didn't want to take it from him.

"What do you think Peter is doing?" Diana asked. In the dim light, Clinton's gaze was gentle.

"Everything he can," he said.

But they both wondered if that would be enough.

Part 4, .

What'd I miss?" Neal asked, trying to sit up a little straighter. He shifted Diana on his lap and looked around. "Did the dancing girls leave?"

"Not _all_ of them," Diana said. "One of them is waiting for you _outside_."

Neal grinned, his hands around her waist. "But then I'd have to leave _you_, and what kind of trade is _that_?"

In spite of herself, Diana smiled. "I can't do the splits anymore, but my high kicks are _amazing_."

"I know _that's_ right," Clinton said. His voice was light but he sounded weary, weary beyond caring. Neal shifted and looked at him, realizing for the first time that Clinton's _arm_ was the reason he was as warm as he was. Clinton felt Neal's eyes on him and finally turned to look. "Back from dreamland, Sleeping Beauty?"

"Not if either of _you_ are going to _kiss_ me," Neal said. He breathed into his hand and made a face. "I'm not very kissable right now."

"Never thought I'd hear you say _that_?" Clinton snorted.

"Well, _that's_ because you've never been able to get me into the backseat of a car with you before—"

"Caffrey, I swear I will kill you."

"Better wait until your hungry. If you're going to cannibalize me, I'm better fresh."

"You're _always_ fresh, Caffrey," said Diana.

He pinched her on the bum.

Her mouth fell open. "You did _not_ just do that!" Diana said. "I cannot believe you just—ouch!"

"There—_that_ time I did it," Neal said and grinned at her like a little kid. No...not a _little_ kid, a big, obnoxious, horny kid.

Diana managed to twist around and smack him on the shoulder, hitting Clinton's arm instead.

"Ow?" he said, giving her a look. "Could you two take it _outside_?"

"I would _love_ to take it _outside_," Diana snapped. "This...this _lech_ here just _pinched_ me."

Neal looked over at Clinton, who still had a hand on her hip, holding the coat in place. "Don't tell me you haven't _thought_ about it," he said, his voice conversational.

Clinton rolled his eyes and looked away.

"I swear, I _will_ kill you, Neal," Diana muttered.

:Yeah, yeah, get in line," Neal said. "Peter's got dibs, Clinton here is planning a barbeque and Mozzie's plotting to steal my wine cabinet. I'll pencil you in. And _that's_ just the _good_ guys."

"You sure know how to charm people," Clinton said, his mouth quirking up at the corners.

"So I've been told," Neal muttered. He tried again to stretch, bumping his head against the cold glass window in the back. "I feel like a sardine."

"Gosh, Caffrey—I'd have thought you felt like _cavier_," Diana snarked.

"Cavier does not come in cans," Neal said patiently. "It comes in little glass—"

"I _know_ that. I've _had_ cavier."

"Congratulations," Clinton said. "Could we maybe stop talking about food?"

They were all uncomfortably aware of their empty stomachs, but the topic had not come up before.

"Sorry," Diana muttered.

But Neal just looked at him. "You started it," he said.


End file.
